toska(n.) a dull ache of the soul, a sick pining, a spiritual anguish.

Dusk: a blade of honey between their shadows, draining.

Dawn: rising first in his throat, before he allowed it to spill over into the sky.

Dusk again, balanced on a knife's edge.

Stranded thus, he could have lost a hundred days without noticing. A hundred times that. A hundred more again.

Endless.

Azula said, "Oroitz?"

He did not respond to his name immediately; he responded in that hesitant, jagged way that Azula always responded to the name Hämäläinen in those first long weeks and months in Illéa – recognising it in the abstract, but not quite cognisant of how it might attach to her personally.

He turned his head towards her. Those awful black eyes – it was impossible to tell if he was looking at her or past her, if he was even aware of where he was, if he knew who she was… who she was.

She said again, softly, "Oroitz?"

He turned back towards the king. Aviram was breathing deeper now; some colour had returned to his skin. It had been an incredible process to watch. Like watching Mazin piece back together a shattered piece of pottery, painstakingly, leaving so few hints that anything had ever been broken. It was an incomplete process, to be sure – his chest still had the unmistakeable appearance of something which had been caved in, something which the vizier's yellow paste, papered across all other wounds, could do little to improve. But the open wound on his throat had sealed up overnight; the crater in his face had slowly begun to inflate into a semblance of bone-and-flesh wholeness once more. It was still a wonder that he was alive at all – but it was no longer an impossibility. It was no longer a miracle.

Death did not need to keep such a tight grip on him now.

Azula could sense the strings around him – without any slack, bound tight like the strings of an instrument, like he was being suspended not by his own will but by the will of something much greater than he.

Was not Azula greater again?

She said, gently, "let's get you to bed."

It was a mere extension of herself, that was all – when she reached out like this, when she realised that she, too, was propelled about by strings, that moving her mouth was a matter of ventriloquism, that reaching out her hand was refined puppetry, that it was all a question of control…

It was simple, then, to reach out his hand instead, to relax his grip on the king, and to take her hand when she offered it. He did not need help rising from his armchair beside the king's bed, but he needed guidance – for a second, Azula thought he might have gone blind like a Hierophant, but, no, he was merely lost somewhere deep inside himself. He recognised her, after a moment, or – if he did not recognise her – then, certainly, he saw her.

He saw her, and she saw herself: running in the shadow of the Wall, fast, faster than she had ever run before. She had been a child. She had still been someone with a name, someone with a history. A family. Not a nameless orphan. Not a soldier. Not a thrall to the court, to the royals. She had been Someone.

He did not speak. Could he, when she was guiding him so? She relaxed her grip. This was not what Lady Chou had asked her to do – she was here to defend the king only, to save the life of the hated tyrant, to protect the very enemy that she and all the other Warriors were here to destroy – but it was, she thought, the kind thing to do. The thing that Ina would do, or Zoran, or Hyacinth. It was a gentle act, to guide Death from the king, and allow Death to rest a moment.

Hidden behind the desk which occupied most of the southernmost wall was a thin, mahoghany door, barely distinguishable from the wood panelling which made up the rest of the study. Azula popped it open with ease – just a matter of pushing in one of the drawers on the desk, so that the door revealed itself and jumped ajar with a liveliness – and moved, with Oroitz, into the space beyond. It was a small sitting room, what might have once been a servant's quarters, to ensure that the king was never unattended. The grate lay empty and cold. Half-finished paintings took up most of the floor space where they had been scattered some many days prior. There was a very square window set into the exact centre of the gable wall, which accorded a wonderful of the meadows below, where the queen's horses were grazing peacefully amongst a tangle of wildflowers stained over amber with the day's wan light.

There was a couch in the corner of this room, where perhaps a maid or servant might usually steal away a few precious hours of sleep in the middle of the day, when the court was alive and bustling and they were meant to be invisible. Azula lay Oroitz down upon it, without herself moving from the door, and marvelled at how easy it was, to guide him thus, to sit him down on the futon, and make him take his shoes off, and lie himself down, a thin sheen of sweat glowing across his forehead from whatever strange task the lady had set him to.

Had the man no sense of self at all? Was it so easy to decide for him his own path? Was he so accustomed to taking orders?

Or had she become more powerful?

She said, "sleep, Oroitz," but those black eyes went on staring and staring and staring. Like the eyes of a bird, she thought, not so sinister as they first appeared – for when she had first glimpsed them, it had made her jump, the inky perfection of them.

She had always loved birds – their grace, their intricacy. Bird bones were not solid, like a human's – they were hollow, with a lattice of cartilage and marrow and mineral serving as supporting struts to ensure that they did not break so easily. She remembered finding some in a long-abandoned nest, once, long ago, and bringing them home to show her adoptive father, marvelling at their delicate perfection. Like they had been designed by hand, she thought, though Lilja and Mazin had never been the religious sort.

Lilja had been too familiar with war to believe in any kind of god.

She released her grip on Oroitz completely then, and watched the life rush back into his face – a doll no longer, then – though he was pale enough that very little colour accompanied it. She thought his eyes might have rolled back – though it was hard to tell – and then, just like that, he was gone, lost to whatever strange world inhabited his skull, hidden behind those inky black eyes.

He must have been exhausted.

Was he the Radiance?

If he was, Azula could simply walk him out of the palace right now. She knew she could, in the same way that she knew her own name.

If he wasn't, then she would be burning her bridges. There would be no way back, not to this place, here, at the very heart of the kingdom itself.

Lady Chou knew who she was – what she was. Azula had waited by the king's deathbed, and waited, and waited, certain that, at any moment, the guards would rush in and kill her – that the prince and princess would glide in and steal her away to be vivisected – that something would happen. But… nothing. Had the lady kept her word? Was she keeping Azula's secret – was she protecting her?

And if she wasn't, would Azula be able to fight her way out?

Perhaps not fight. Perhaps not.

Perhaps she didn't have to fight anymore, if she didn't want to. Hadn't that always been her dream? Wasn't this what she had always hoped for? A path out of the eternal war Irij guaranteed for its people, a path towards peace – actual peace – for the Kur?

She almost laughed to think of it. Sure. She was going to bring about world peace, all on her own. Why not.

She kept her eyes on Oroitz as she slowly backed out of the sitting room, and left the door open as she retreated past the desk again, so that she would be able to watch him from her position by the king's bed. The thought occurred to her, not for the first time, that she could simply – kill him. The king. Aviram. The Schreave. Heir to the whole rotten legacy of the Schreaves and their ilk.

She could kill him. It would be as simple as, what – a knife in the throat? A pillow over his face? Or simply not waking Oroitz, and letting nature take back control from the distinct sway of unnature that was the xrafstar's influence on reality?

She could kill him.

She could.

Could she?

"Hämäläinen. Isn't it?"

Azula spun.

Princess Asenath smiled. "I did not mean to alarm you."

The portraits had not done her justice. Azula remembered thinking that the royals looked like her here – had the same olive skin, the same pin-straight black hair, the same monolidded eyes, the same soft heart-shaped faces – but it was clear now, glimpsing the princess, that such a comparison had been utter arrogance on Azula's part. They certainly could not be compared, not in any world. Slender and statuesque, Asenath had delicate features that might have been whittled from glass or diamond, spattered with tiny black freckles like an unmapped constellation, and silver-grey eyes to match. Her long dress was a pale pink silk, embroidered with tiny mint-green butterflies, whose wings seemed to flutter as she moved. On her head lay a delicate circlet in rose-gold leaf, which in this pale light resembled a small, personal halo.

Azula managed to breathe again, and hoped that the princess assumed she was still merely frightened. She was, a little – perhaps this was it. Perhaps Lady Chou had ratted her out, after all.

But Asenath was smiling warmly. Azula wasn't sure she would smile like that if she was about to order the Devil's vivisection.

On the other hand, Azula had grown up with Nez, so – anything was possible. Better to stay on her guard.

"Pardon me, your Highness," Azula said. "I was just… checking on –"

"Major Txori." Asenath drifted – yes, that was the word, she glided – across the polished floor, so that she could peer in through the secret door at the sleeping xrafstar. "How is he?"

Major? The boy was barely older than Pekka had been. Azula did her best to hide her surprise to hear this term used. "He is exhausted."

"Some rest will do him the world of good."

Azula nodded. She was at a loss for further words – what else should she say? What else could she say, without incriminating herself?

"I will watch over him," Asenath said, still wearing that same warm smile. It was like one of Ilja's expressions, Azula thought, exactly like them, the ones he rehearsed and practiced, the ones he employed like weapons for particular situations as a performer might employ a mask. It was simply too perfect – it was simply too effective. It put Azula at ease, in a situation where Azula knew that she should never, truly, be at ease.

So Azula smiled back. "Are you sure? Lady Chou asked me –"

"I'm sure. I wanted to spend some time with papa, anyway; Silas is going off on a date and mama is in her study, so I thought someone should keep him company." Asenath glanced back at the bed and – yes! Azula had been correct – there was a softening there – that was a real expression from the princess, real and vulnerable and sweet – and she shook her head. "He is looking much better. I am glad."

The vizier had tended to the king for many hours. He had only left the chamber perhaps an hour ago, murmuring to no one in particular that he was going to find Kasimira, who was meant to be gathering him more materials, that he could not be expected to save a man's life with air alone.

He had left Azula alone in the room, with only Death and a dying king for company. That had felt like a test. She wondered if she had passed.

"It has been a long night, Miss Hämäläinen. You should get some rest."

Azula said again, "are you sure?"

"Of course. I don't think either of them are particularly in need of a maid right now – the mess can wait."

Azula relaxed, minutely. Was that what the princess thought her duty was here? Merely to clean, to run errands, to bring food and messages hither-and-thither?

Then perhaps Swietłana had been as good as her word.

Azula dipped into a curtsey. "Thank you. Should I return…?"

"Perhaps after dinner – only if Akanksha hasn't found something else to throw at you!" Asenath laughed, but there was, yes, a coldness to it, a coldness so perfectly veiled that none but a girl raised with Ilja Schovajsa might have recognised it.

She was waiting for Azula to leave.

Azula would have to make sure there was a witness who saw her leaving the bedchambers. Just in case. Just in case something happened to Aviram or Oroitz after she was gone.

She almost laughed at the thought. When had she become a creature of court intrigues?

Nonetheless, as she departed the bed chamber and emerged onto the corridor once again, she let out a low whistle at a maid passing in the opposite direction, who paused, and flashed her a smile. They had been recruited together in Aizsaule; Azula thought her first name might be something like Jelena. "Đorđević. Where's Akanksha?"

"Ballroom, I think – body duty."

Still? "Do you know what time it is?"

The other maid scrunched her face. "I… ugh, I haven't a clue, I've been in the laundry room all day. Just before lunch? I guess?" She glanced out the window. Azula followed her gaze and – was that? She wasn't sure. All these grey coated men looked alike. How long had it been since she had last seen Ilja? "Near noon."

"Thanks."

"I'm glad," Đorđević said, "to see you. We lost a lot of people. We thought maybe you as well."

Azula shook her head. "Just been…"

"Everyone's been super busy. I get it." She waved. "You look like you have someplace to be. Get out of here – I'll see you at dinner!"

Azula waved at her gratefully, and waited for her to turn the corner with her basketful of linens, and waited again for her to drift out of earshot, before she turned and bolted towards the stairs. The passage that Lady Chou had brought her through the night before was a part of the servants' hidden labryinth; Azula could run down the flight of steps two-at-a-time without fear of anyone but other workers glimpsing her.

She burst out into the courtyard below and – ah. Arrested her sprint, came up short, and waved awkwardly at poor Agnar, who was crossing the quad on his own with a slight limp, and didn't seem to know what to make of Azula's sudden and bizarre appearance.

Azula said, "berry emergency. In the kitchens."

Agnar managed a faint smile. "...I see."

He kept walking. Azula kept nodding until he was gone, and then for a little while afterwards, like she was trying to remember why she had sprinted down here in the first place.

Where was the berry patch, again?

"Are you lost, Hämäläinen?"

"Not at all, Schovajsa. Just thinking. I know it's a foreign concept for you –"

He laughed. He'd been entering from the right side of the quad, passing Agnar as he did so, descending down the cobbled path from the stables, leading a lovely bay horse with an ease that suggested he had spent his whole life around the creatures. Finally, Azula mused, Commandant's insistance on having them all become competent equestrians was proving wise. Was there method in all that man's madness?

"Glad to see you're still alive, Zula." He kept his voice soft, as he approached, so she had to strain to hear it. She wanted so desperately to hug him – instead, she settled for searching his face for some hint of injury, for some sign that he had been hurt in the ballroom attack. "Was beginning to wonder."

"Just busy." Her eyes darted about for witnesses. "I've been… with the king."

Ilja blanched.

"He's really badly injured," Azula said. "So I don't think he's the Radiance at all. They have some new xrafstar in, dealing with him –"

"Not the Radiance?"

"I don't think so. I assumed Death..."

Ilja nodded. "Some tagma managed to grab Mielikki before we did."

Ah. When he put it like that – when he put Mielikki's name on it – when it wasn't merely in the abstract, a curse and a power and a burden, but her friend's body, her friend…

"That must be it. They must have initiated him, and – oh, god, put him to work straight away."

That, more than anything, made her pause. Perhaps that was why she could exert such control. She still remembered waking from initiation, still expecting to see Céluiz out of the corner of her eye, not quite able to move her limbs like she remembered being able to, not being able to breathe without thinking about it, all of her thoughts blurring together into an indecipherable mess. If he was in the same situation – yes, it was best she did not get too cocky. He might at his weakest. It was a miracle he could use his curse at all, if that was the case.

"Who is he? The xrafstar?"

"Oroitz something. A Watcher."

Ilja was feeding the reins through his hands, wrapping them through and around his knuckles, transparently trying to appear busy lest anyone be watching them through the thousands of crystal windows which faced out onto this courtyard. This was not a clandestine way to meet, Azula knew, but, in a way, that was a defence. No one would suspect them of conspiracy, speaking so openly. "Okay. Oroitz."

She said, "did you get the Star to Belle?"

"I thought I had," he replied. "I guess I'll find out."

"You're meeting her?"

"Silas is." Ilja grinned. "Riding date with Evanne Chae, Adeline Toussaint, and Eunbyeol Seo."

Azula let out a low, appreciative whistle, and then laughed. Belle wasn't just in the Selection – she was doing well. More importantly – "You're working for Silas? Like… directly for Silas? His personal guard?"

"As of an hour ago. Technically I'm starting tomorrow, but they're short-handed what with all the dead bodies, so I offered to tack the horse."

"A gentleman as always."

Her next words came in a rush.

"Is everyone okay?"

He hesitated. She saw him hesitate.

"Alive," he said. "Alive and whole."

Really, she supposed that was the best they could hope for.

She had not believed that his voice could drop lower, but lower it dropped, as though this was the greater secret, more important even than the conversation of curses and xrafstars. "Are you safe?"

Was she? Lady Chou knew what she was, but Lady Chou had said nothing. She was in the lion's den, right next to the king, so close that he was not safe. She could puppeteer death like it was nothing.

What was that, if not safety?

Over his shoulder, she could see others approaching – a group of Selected beelining towards them, no doubt intending to interrogate Ilja about the prince and his intentions. Behind them, looking for all the world as anonymous as Ilja did among the guards, was Lady Chou, her hands stained with ink, her eyes focused. She was looking at Azula. She was smiling.

There was no time to explain further.

She made a decision.

"Yes," she said, and she was not lying. She meant it. "I am safe."